Starving Works
by PorcelanaRota
Summary: Stanley is seventeen-years-old and needs to cut six pounds before his next boxing match. Luckily, one of his teammates pulls him aside and teaches him some techniques that will help with that. / / One shot. National Eating Disorders Association Hotline number: (800) 931-2237. / / TW: Anorexia and bulimia. I might write a second chapter, but for now, it's just a one-shot.


**A/N**

 **www .** nationaleatingdisorders **help-support/contact-helpline**

 **If you are uncomfortable with speaking on the phone with the phone number provided in the summary, remove the spaces from the above link. You'll have to scroll down a bit to message** a live **and trained Helpline volunteer. If it is a crisis situation, you can text "NEDA" to 741741 to be connected with a trained volunteer at Crisis Text Line.**

 **If the Helpline is not available, leave a message and they will get back to you through** a text **or call ASAP.**

 **Don't be afraid to get the help you need or someone you know needs. Be informed.**

 **I might write a second part to this, but for** now **I'm content to leave it as a one-shot.**

 **I tried to remain vague about boxing purposefully since I'm not a fan of the sport and don't know too much about the matches, etc. If something is wrong, just pretend that's how boxing works in the Gravity Falls universe.**

xxXxx

Six pounds.

Six pounds.

That was all that was standing between him and the next match.

Right now he was just barely in the cruiserweight division, but Coach Metternich said that he'd keep Stanley from competing if he didn't cut enough pounds to box in light heavyweight.

Boxing was the only thing Stanley Pines could do. He wasn't smart like his twin, nor was he particularly good at scamming people like his Ma and Pa. He didn't have a special talent like Stanford's art ability or his Ma's singing, he just had boxing.

Boxing was the only thing that his Pa was proud of him for.

Stan slammed his locker shut with a panicked, frustrated groan. His foot began tapping in nervousness of its own volition; how was he going to explain this to Pa?

Stan could already picture the scowl dipping even lower on his father's face, turning it into a frown. He could see with his mind's eye how the older man would stiffen, bite his lower lip, and his fists would clench and unclench as he debated yelling or striking out first.

His ribs already started to ache just thinking about it.

"Stan," a voice suddenly called, startling Stan. He had thought he was the only person still at the gym.

He turned around and saw Jack Turner, a string bean of a kid in the flyweight division. He looked like a small breeze could carry him off, until he got into the ring. Then the fifteen-year-old was one hell of a spitfire, defending and offending like he was fighting for his own life.

Which, like most guys on this team, he probably was in some way or another.

"Turner," Stan greeted with a nod, pushing down his anxiety about the upcoming match. "What is it?"

"Heard you need to do some weight-cutting," Turner said knowingly, nodding to Coach's office. Stan wondered if he meant he was eavesdropping or if Coach told Turner to talk to him. Probably the latter.

"And what of it?" Stan grunted out. His failure was his business and his alone.

"You've got less than a week to lose weight so you can participate in the light heavyweight, or not participate at all. Do I have that right?"

Turner was too damn cocky for his own good.

"Yeah, you do," Stan bitterly admitted. "And I have no idea how I'm gonna do it."

Turner grinned, sly and determined. "There are lots of ways. Here."

Turner handed him a bottle of aspirin, and Stan took it willingly but still scoffed.

"Aspirin?" he asked doubtfully.

"Not aspirin," Turner corrected, "Water pills. They'll make you go to the bathroom, cut some weight. Do a lot of running - especially before the match next week. Get two miles away and run there. Oh, and purge after meals."

"Purge?" Stan asked, and Turner grinned.

"Yeah. Y'know, throw up. You get the pleasure of eating and none of the calories. It's great."

Stan looked over the pill bottle consideringly and turned the idea over in his mind. Skipping a meal or two a day wouldn't kill him, and if he needed to eat more than that, purging it also wouldn't kill him…. Besides, it's just until the fight in five days. He can go back to eating normally after that and pick up exercising more to pick up the slack of skipping meals.

"Huh," Stan said after a second of thinking about it. "Not a bad idea. Thanks, Turner." He pocketed the pills. "I'll, uh, pay you back for the pills later, yeah?"

Turner gave a sly sort of smirk, "Nah, don't worry about it. They cost hardly a thing at the convenience store. And call me Jack."

"Jack," Stan said obligingly with a thankful nod. "Thanks again. I'll see you around."

"See ya, Stan."

And that was the start of it.

xxXxx

In the beginning, Stan was worried his mom or twin, Ford, would notice that he was skipping meals, but no one ever asked him or even glanced at him suspiciously. He ate a few pancakes at breakfast in the mornings and completely skipped dinner with the excuse that he was training with a teammate for his big match - and it was a half-truth. He was training, just not with a friend. He went out to the school's track and ran, trying to throw off his extra weight, only drinking water and taking breaks when black dots were born into his vision and the world tilted slightly.

Some part of him knew that what he was doing wasn't exactly healthy - and that part of him sounded awfully like Ford - so to get it to shut up he would snack on an apple.

But that was it. Pancakes in the morning, an apple or two in the evening before running.

He'd thought it would be hard at first, that his stomach would protest too much, that he would be too weak to resist, but it wasn't hard. It was almost… freeing. This was the one thing in a long time that he could control. This weight-cutting, this starvation, this was something that he decided to do. Sure, Jack had introduced him to the idea, but it was all Stan's choice to go through with it. All his life Stan has had decisions made for him by his Pa, or his teachers, or his mom. This was the one thing that was his own, that was his choice.

This was his. And he didn't want anyone to take it from him.

Five days flew by, and soon he was prepping for the fight. He had the bus drop him off a mile away from the rival school the match was being held at and he ran the rest of the way to help get rid of any water weight he might be retaining. He was weighed and he just _barely_ qualified for the light heavyweight division. With a relieved grin on his face, Stanley had his back patted by a satisfied-looking Coach Metternich, and when he went and told Jack about how he qualified, Jack gave an easy smile and a whispered, "See? I told you: starving works."

"You were right," Stan had chuckled.

Stan won the match. His Pa was not there to see him compete. Neither was his Ma since she was too busy watching the newest addition to their family, Shermie. And Ford…. He was always off working on that fancy perpetual motion thingy. Even if he wasn't, Ford wasn't really into boxing like he was: he'd probably not come.

That was fine. Stan understood. He did.

As he rode the bus back home, his win was heavy on his mind, and the water pills in his jacket were even heavier. He knew he had planned on going back to normal meals after this, but….

His hand found its way into his pocket, and he gripped the pill bottle hard.

He had to make sure he maintained the perfect weight. Not just for boxing, but to keep his control, too.

Mind made up, he opened up the bottle and swallowed a pill dry.

Stan was not giving up his control.

xxXxx

Ford was going to go away to some fancy, smarty-pants university for poindexters like him all the way across the country, and he would forget all about Stan as he made friends like him and eventually became a famous scientist who was too busy for idiots like Stan.

 _That's fine, it really is,_ Stan tried to convince himself as he threw up that night's spaghetti in the bathroom. _I mean, I didn't really expect us to go sailing around the world together. That would be stupid._

Yeah. Stupid.

He sat on the bathroom floor for a few minutes before pulling himself up and flushing the toilet. A glance in the mirror told him that he looked a mess: his hair was plastered to his face with sweat, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face pale and flushed.

 _This is fine_ , he told himself. Then, out loud, "I'm fine."

He splashed water on his face, letting his elbows rest on the porcelain sink for a moment. He let himself collect his thoughts, to get his bearings, and then he pushed himself to stand straight and leave the bathroom.

He walked downstairs, where his Ma was feeding the baby.

"Ma," he said, "I'm going out for a run, okay?"

"Alright, honey," she replied tiredly. Shermie has been crying a lot lately.

Stan grabbed his keys from the hook and left the house.

He didn't stop running until he almost passed out.

He thinks that next time, he'll just keep running anyway.

xxXxx

A few weeks later, Stan is having a bad day. He's lost too much weight, and now Coach Metternich is threatening to keep him from competing in the tournament unless he can gain three pounds to stay at the top in the light heavyweight class. He doesn't want to gain weight. He likes what he's doing now, but him liking it won't get him into the match.

He eats lunch. He eats supper. He purges both meals and sobs both times because throwing up always makes him cry, even though Pa says men don't cry. He can't keep anything down, and he desperately needs to.

Ford is a bundle of excited, enthused nerves, and Stan is happy for him, he really is. He wants Ford to have a good future, a good life, and Stan has accepted that Ford won't have that if he's around, riding on Ford's coattails.

Stan has boxing and he has starving. It will have to be enough for him.

Somehow he finds himself driving to the high school in his car. His thoughts are leaning towards running the track to keep the stress down, but as he pulls into the parking lot, he remembers that he needs to be gaining weight, not losing it. He sighs and lets his head fall against the steering wheel in frustration, but doesn't make any movement to pull out of the parking lot.

What is he going to do? He can't gain three pounds. He can't even hold half of a normal sized lunch down. Not to mention Ford is going to leave him, his Pa is going to be disappointed in him….

His stomach gurgles, upset at its mistreatment from earlier. He sighs and tries to think of something he can eat that wasn't a full meal.

It hits him suddenly. He hasn't had his favorite snack, Toffee Peanuts, in months now, not since Jack introduced him to water pills, and he knows for a fact that the vending machine in the school has his beloved snack.

He yanks his keys out of the ignition and leaves his car. The school doors are open and he makes his way into the lobby, where the vending machine. After getting his Toffee Peanuts, he absent-mindedly walks through the halls and snacks on his food. No one was around to stop him, and a school at nighttime had a dark, enticing feel about it.

His feet lead him to the gym, where the science fair was set up for the next day. He blinks and decides to go in for a quick peek at Ford's invention. His brother really was a genius, and Stan wanted to admire that genius up close while he still could.

He removed the tarp that covered his big brother's future. The advanced machine beneath it was moving perpetually, which was the idea, Stan supposed. He didn't really understand the science behind it, but he did understand the significance of such an invention. He'd done research in the school's library so he could since Ford was always so busy working on the project and talking to teachers about it and such, and Stan didn't want to bother him.

A machine that works nonstop without an energy source… such a thing would violate a few laws of thermodynamics if Stan remembered correctly. He was pretty sure he did because if anyone could violate such set in stone rules, it would be his big brother.

And Stan might be stupid, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew how important, how valued and game-changing this invention was.

Man, his big brother was going to do great things.

The proud grin that had been on his face dropped.

His brother was going to do great things, but… he was going to lose him.

With what little appetite he had had previously now gone, Stan dropped the Toffee Peanuts on the ground. His stomach suddenly lurched in pain, and he collapsed to his knees to clutch at his mouth to keep the Toffee Peanuts from coming up.

He… he _needed_ this. If Ford was going to leave him, then Stan _needed_ to at least have boxing and control. Just these two things. That's all he needs.

After what seems like ages, the pain recedes, and he slowly relaxes his muscles from their tensed up state. He stands, but the floor wobbles beneath him, and he collapses again.

Before he blacks out, his head hits the table Ford's project was on.

When he comes to a minute or two later, a vent had popped off the machine and it wasn't spinning anymore.

A cold stone dropped into Stan's stomach, and he hurriedly grabbed the vent that fell off and put it back on the perpetual motion machine. Slowly it started back up, and the stone eased up.

Stan let out the biggest sigh of relief he's ever sighed before, and he covered the machine back up with the tarp. He then stumbles out of the school, still dizzy and now crashing on the mini adrenaline rush he had just experienced.

xxXxx

Stan had thought that he fixed the perpetual motion machine, but as he stared, shocked, at Ford's enraged and heartbroken face, he came to the horrific conclusion that he didn't do as good a job at fixing it as he had thought.

Then his father came barrelling in and hearing Ford's story of how the college board only saw a broken machine all thanks to _Stanley_ , he grabbed Stan by the shirt and kicked him out of the house, saying he could only come back when he made the money that Ford would have.

Luckily Stan had had his car keys in his pocket. He unlocked his car and sat in the driver's seat, putting the keys in the ignition but not turning them. His mind was scarily blank as it tried to process that he was now _homeless._

Tears started to fall from his eyes, and he let out a hysterical giggle.

 _I have no money._

 _Guess it's a good thing I don't have to worry about food._

Jack really was right.

xxXxx

 **A/N**

 **Except Jack Turner was not right because he also needs help with his own anorexia.**

 **Normally I don't leave A/Ns at the end of a story, but I felt that an exception had to be made here.**


End file.
